February in New Hampshire

I just came across a poem I wrote when I was away from New Hampshire for a while and missing winter. I'm just in time, because it's called "February":


A desolate wasteland of white,
Of wind and of snow and of light--
The wind in the trees on a hill,
The snow now at rest from its flight,
And everywhere--everywhere--light.

A universe barren and bare,
Where man cannot see for the glare
And barely can breathe for the chill.
He stands 'midst the elements there.
And they? Neither see him, nor care.

Fiction Writer Spotlight: Carlos Robson

About a year ago, I went to an appearance by poet Carlos Robson and became a fan. I was impressed by his talent in writing and delivery, and especially how he seemed to transform himself into his characters. But what turned me into a fan were his message of empowerment and how deeply he connected with his audience. 

Here's what his publicist, Bass Schuler, has to say: 

Carlos Robson is an award winning spoken word poet, playwright, and teaching artist.As a competitive “slam”poet, he’s competed in local, regional, national and international competitions, winning the National Poetry Slam championship in 2007 and again in 2008 as a member of the North Carolina based team, Slam Charlotte. He has performed in all corners of the nation and on Broadway, and is a co-founder of the Charlotte based artist collective The Concrete Generation as well as one half of the live arts project The Indoctrination Experiment. Twice nominated for APCA Spoken Word Artist of the Year, Carlos has performed at over (50?) colleges and universities.In 2009, Carlos co-wrote and appeared in the play “Miles & Coltrane:blue(.)” directed by Quentin Talley, which appeared off-Broadway and at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in Edinburgh, Scotland.

If you'd like to see Carlos perform, here's his schedule:

IL         MORTON COLLEGE                                 CICERO                   February 4, 2013

GA       MIDDLE GEORGIA STATE COLLEGE   MACON                   February 14, 2013

NY       SUNY DELHI                                             DELHI                      February 22, 2013

NY      CAYUGA COM. COLLEGE                       AUBURN                 February 25, 2013

NY      MOHAWK VALLEY COM. COLLEGE     UTICA                     February 26, 2013

NY      UNION COLLEGE                                     SCHENECTADY    March 1, 2013

TN      VOLUNTEER STATE COM. COLLEGE   GALLATIN              March 27, 2013

An Untitled Poem

This poem is actually true, except that I wrote it after I'd grown up and moved out, because I missed the place. I never gave it a title.

Photo: lisa-gordon.com

I live in a house that is musty
And always is hopelessly dusty.
The rug there is stained
Where it leaked when it rained
In the house where the rug was before.

The view out the window is pretty.
The floor that's beside it is gritty.
The cracked up cement
Is pretty well spent
But it's all that we have for a floor.

The house wasn't built for a dwelling
(It's perfectly true what I'm telling),
It was simply a shack
That was built out in back,
But it still is the home I adore.

Short Story: The Dancing-Huts

A poetic short story:

A soft and summery hum was the bumblebee's song of praise. The iris worshiped in blue and yellow silence. Together they danced before the Light.

Photo: dwellingintheword.wordpress.com

And they were not the only dancers. The whole meadow was alive with other bees on other blooms, with waving grass and laughing brook, with bluebirds and rabbits and lambs and little children. Together they danced a tribute of joyful thanks before the Light.

No sun shone on that meadow, nor was any moon to be seen. So bright was the Light that the sun would have looked feeble and cold beside him. And everywhere the Light shone, life grew and praised him.

At the edge of the meadow, and all around it, stood alabaster pillars, and joining the pillars were alabaster arches. There were no gates in the arches, for the arches were always open to all who would enter to worship the Light.

Some of the children carried bags of precious seed, and as these children danced, they left the meadow through the arches. Other children returned with their bags empty, but they did not return alone. They brought other children, skipping and playing and joining the dance. They brought grown men and women, counting aloud as they struggled to keep in step. They brought white-haired elders, walking stiffly and carrying many books of rules for how to dance before the Light.

Photo: westpointdesign.blogspot.com

Some of the men and women picked up bags of precious seed, and others did not. Those who did not soon grew weary of dancing. Their hair became white and their bodies old. But those who picked up the seed began to dance without counting, began to skip and began to play. And as they played, they grew younger. When they had fully grown into children, they danced out between the alabaster pillars to sow and to reap for the Light.

Dotting the meadow were many small huts. In the walls of the huts were no windows. Inside the huts no bees hummed and no flowers bloomed, no birds sang and no children skipped. Each hut had one door, and it was tightly shut. To these huts the elders marched with their heavy books, entering as quickly as their feeble bodies would let them and shutting out the joyful meadow of the Light.

In every hut the elders huddled in the dark. And from every hut came the same tired and tuneless singing, as the elders intoned, "What mercy is given to us, that of all the huts, we have been drawn to the one hut where shines the Light."

Jibril

An excerpt from my novel Resist the Devil:

Photo: harrycutting.blogspot.com

I am of the mujihadeen.

My father was a traitor and now he abides in the fire where he belongs. I will not be like him.

I am of the faithful ones and my day will come. The unbelievers will be surprised, and I will secure my place in the Garden.

Photo: zawaj.com

My mother is a fool.

She listens to the lies of the unbelievers. 


But I am of the faithful ones and my day will come.

I will secure my place in the Garden, and my mother’s eyes will be opened and she will be saved from the fire.






I am Jibril: Mighty One of God.

My day has not yet come, but it will come.

Perhaps my preparation will take longer than I had thought, but it will come.

I will be diligent and study, and I will secure my place in the Garden, and save my mother from the fire. 

Photo: flickriver.com

My training has taken longer than I ever imagined.


I have studied, I have researched, I have developed discipline,
endurance, strength and skill.


My day draws near.

I am of the mujihadeen.

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Guest Post: Security

Please help me welcome today's guest blogger, Bronwyn Cair:

I'm just asking for a little security,
An opportunity
To ask myself if this is what I want,
A chance to get out while the gettin's good.

Photo: digital-photography-school.com

I can’t pretend, keep telling myself
Can’t put it on a shelf,
I have to break my delusion, 
This is not the answer, and all I need

Is a chance to step back, to say 
That I need to breathe, need to feel the 
Wind in my hair, to 
Be free, I just need a minute, just

A little security.

Back when we started, it wasn’t
Hard to imagine where we’d be by now,
Because you would say anything,
Do anything just to get in my bed.


And I believed you, believed it all, even
As I watched you fall,
As I failed to catch you and let you blame me,
I still didn’t see,


That you’ll never give me a 
Moment to breathe, a lifetime to be
Everything I’ve always wanted, a 
Chance to fly, a little

Security.

I’m not an asset, another prize for you
To behold, I’m not going to sit there
And do what I’m told. I won’t let you

Photo: kerrykatherineandhayley.blogspot.com

Groom me to be your china doll,

Because this shelf is just too small,

And I’d rather fall and crack my head than

Let you fall back in my bed,

Because I just need a second,

A moment to be me, a few hundred hours

To see what it means to be free,

And while you are tempting,

A lie, though so sweet, 

I am taking a step back, I’m stretching my 

Legs, I’ll stand on my own and find my own,

Be me own, thrive on my own

Security.

Carlos Robson

Yesterday I had the chance to attend a poetry performance by Carlos Robson.

I almost didn’t go. I could just imagine what it would be like: an hour of whining, if I was lucky. If I wasn’t lucky, he’d be the kind of ‘poet’ who puts together disjointed images of gore and perversion, just to shock the audience.

I did go, of course. I’m a writer, after all, and a poetry performance is, at least marginally, an event in my field. It was free, and it was very close to where I was staying at my brother’s place in New Haven, Connecticut. I went because I couldn’t come up with a decent excuse not to.

I loved it. Instead of whining, I heard inspiration; instead of shock, respect. And it was the kind of inspiration and respect you can believe in, because it was anchored not in lofty ideals but in practical reality. The audience was mostly young and urban, and Carlos spoke their language.

The poem that affected me most was about his uncle, who was a fan of “The Wizard of Oz” and who lost his mind in the Vietnam War. Let me back up and fill in some context.

I recently finished writing a novel about terrorism. To write it, I immersed myself in the twisted mind of the mass murderer and put myself in the shoes of the victims. And I wrote it too fast, didn’t give myself the time to take the insanity in pieces.

After that, to help myself heal, I’ve been working with my daughter on something just for fun: a fan fiction teleplay. To get to know my characters and make them ‘real,’ I always make them my imaginary friends. Sure, I get caught talking to myself, and it probably means I’m diagnosably crazy, but the technique works. Lately, I’ve had a Cardassian Gul from Star Trek following me around whether I ask him to or not. And it just so happens that his planet was recently reduced to a ball of rubble in a particularly horrible war.

So with all that in mind, I sat in a Connecticut classroom last Friday and watched Carlos Robson take on the persona of his uncle. “Follow orders!” he yelled at the tornado. “Follow orders!” Then sadly, “Follow the yellow brick road. The road is paved with the faces of the dead.”

The poems weren’t all so heartbreaking. In fact, even the tragic ones contributed to the overall message: “Don’t let anybody stop you from doing what you need to do to get where you’re going.”